Shadow Princess (14 page)

The encampment would stay at a place for a few days, perhaps a week, and then move on to the second
paish-khana
—which had left Burhanpur a few days before—so that all they had to do was descend from their horses, camels, and palanquins and find their accommodations exactly similar to those they had left behind in the day’s journey. At any given time, the Emperor’s campsite would accommodate about four hundred thousand people.

The first major city they would reach would be Mandu, then Ajmer, and then Agra. But along the way there would be other, frequent stops wherever they found water in the form of a lake, a river, a pond, and where the land could be flattened out to pitch their camps.

“How long will we be on the road?” Roshanara asked.

“Two months, perhaps more; if Bapa wishes to take us to a hunting ground for some new game, we will be longer. It all depends on him.”

“And you?” Roshanara said.

“And me, Roshan,” Jahanara said firmly. In the past few months, despite frequent skirmishes, they had settled into an amicability that had been surprising. But one day, without any warning, Roshan had stopped arguing with her, and Jahanara, preoccupied with her mother’s duties, had not initially noticed. Of all her siblings, she loved Dara the best; why was hard for even her to articulate—especially under such persistent questioning from Roshanara. Perhaps because they were closest in age, or perhaps even because they were alike in temperament. But now, with Mama dead, it had suddenly become important for Jahanara to have an ally in the
zenana,
and who better than her own sister? So Roshan’s unexpected calm had been a blessing. Jahanara sighed. She was very tired, exhausted almost, burdened with too many tasks.

“I heard Satti calling you Begam Sahib,” Roshan said. “Are you the Padshah Begam now, Jahan? What of Bapa’s other wives?”

Jahanara smiled with a little, wry upturn of the edges of her lips. Satti Khanum had stayed back at Agra after accompanying their mother’s body to the work site of the tomb, and Shuja had returned in early February—this Jahanara had wanted, and she had petitioned their father to order it. Satti had been, still was, the first lady-in-waiting in the imperial
zenana,
perhaps almost as authoritative as Mama had been. And when Mama had died, Satti had transferred herself to the same role to Jahanara, supposedly that of a friend and an adviser. But the relationship was not the same. Jahanara, used to having her way in most matters, found Satti Khanum’s presence too cloying, too domineering, almost too condescending because Satti was older. Satti had thought that this difference in her behavior would not be noticed, and though she would never have dared to take liberties with the Empress, she did with the princess. So Jahanara had waited with a patience she had taught herself, to find the appropriate time to send her caretaker away and to teach her a lesson in humility. For as valuable as Satti’s role had been in going to Agra to accompany Mumtaz’s body, her staying was a definite statement.

“Do you know why Satti called me Begam Sahib?” she asked. “It was in jest, a comment on my supposed arrogance in giving the order for her to go to Agra and wait for us there.”

“Was it good to anger her, Jahan?” Roshanara’s face was suddenly very young, anxious.

“Roshan . . .” Jahanara paused to choose words carefully. “We are . . . supreme now. Bapa’s other wives had little consequence when Mama was alive, and while they might have risen somewhat in eminence now, the plain truth is that he does not love them. Not as much as he loves us. Would you want them to order us around?”

“Of course not. But only one of them has a living child, and a daughter; where is the value in that?”

Jahanara smiled.
They
were girls also, but what Roshan meant was that they had living brothers who would inherit the throne, so their positions in the imperial
zenana
were assured—they were women with power, and Bapa’s other wives, loved but with affection and not passion, could not create trouble for them with that lone daughter, who would be married and have children and die one day, without ambitions.

“Satti needed some time away from here,” Jahanara said, “so that she can learn to really call me Begam Sahib when we return. She must know never to cross me again.”

“No one must?” Roshanara said faintly.

“Not even you.”

They were silent for a while after this. Jahanara had decided to travel by palanquin for the first few days, so Roshanara had decided likewise. It would be a leisurely journey—the distance from Burhanpur to Agra had been accomplished by Emperor Shah Jahan’s runners in a little more than two and a half days; by Prince Shah Shuja, traveling back on his horse and stopping merely for the night, in about fifteen days; and by them, moving in a huge mass of men, livestock, artillery, and the imperial
zenana,
in something more than two months.

“That
amir,
” Roshanara said as she turned to leave her sister still at the ramparts. “The one by Aurangzeb’s side—that was Mirza Najabat Khan.”

Jahanara caught her arm and pulled her back. “How do you know?”

“As I know most things, Jahan. You are not the only one in the imperial
zenana
with resources.” She wrenched her arm from her older sister’s grasp and ran over the brick terrace toward the staircase. Perhaps that noble had been Najabat Khan, or perhaps not. The little lie would keep Jahan thinking for a while—thinking about opportunities missed, a glance at a lover lost—and she would perhaps, just perhaps, not be so strident and demanding in the harem.

•  •  •

A little before noon, the palanquin entered a stand of dying laurel trees, too small to be called a forest, too large to circumvent. The laurels were leafless now, bare branches extended overhead in a cobweb, linking one into the other, but the unremitting sun seared through every gap. No escape from the heat here, Jahanara thought, wiping her forehead and neck, her hand coming away wet with sweat. She picked up the gleaming peacock-feather fan and waved it ineffectually, moving the burning air around the confines of her palanquin. The curtains, of a glowing silk weave in chartreuse, were closed. Inside was a fine netting of English lace that some traveler had brought from England as a gift for Emperor Jahangir—ten bolts of it, distributed casually among the wives and sons. He, and Jahanara strained to remember his name, Sir Thomas Roe perhaps, had come as an official ambassador from the court of a King James, striving for a trade treaty for the peppercorns, the indigo, the fragrant sandalwoods, and the calicos of Hindustan. But he had not lasted for long—much like Emperor Babur, she thought with a smile; he had hated the heat in India (because he still insisted upon donning his English gear: stockings, doublet, fitted coat, a frilled and close collar), and they, the Mughals, were much more refined at diplomacy than the English. Roe did not get his treaty, though he got many assurances of affection from Jahangir. So he went home. Since, the English had not sent any more ambassadors, but they were still here in Hindustan, setting up “factories,” which were merely warehouses to collect and store goods until they could be laden on ships to England.

In the early days after Shah Jahan had become Emperor, he had considered briefly the value of the English on Indian soil. Why not drive them away? Jahanara had asked. And he had said that the foreigners—the Portuguese Jesuits, the Dutch, the English—all served a purpose to the Empire. They wanted Indian goods, poured millions of rupees’ worth of gold and silver into the treasuries in return, and keeping them all in Hindustan was a surety against any one of them becoming too powerful or too demanding. Look at the trouble Emperor Jahangir had with the Portuguese, he had said. And that too was well-known history. Jahanara drew her knees up and tucked her chin over them. At first, the Jesuits had controlled the trade routes in the Arabian Sea, to the extent that even pilgrims from India traveling on the Haj to Mecca had their passports stamped with pictures of Jesus and Mary. The Emperor had deemed it a small price to pay for security from piracy. But then, in retaliation for the privileges being given to the English at court, the Portuguese viceroy had captured and burned a hundred and twenty Mughal ships—not ships of the navy, for the Empire had no navy and so had to rely on foreign help, but trade ships—in Goa’s harbor. That was when Emperor Jahangir and Mehrunnisa had crushed them, taking away treaties, restricting their movements within the land. Now this new problem.

She pulled the lace curtains apart, their aroma sweet in the fiery heat, since they had been washed, as the merchant had suggested, in goat’s milk and hung to dry in the sun until they gleamed like snow. Then she reached out and parted the silk and realized that she was alone for the first time in so many days. The laurels had been planted, or had taken root, close to one another. Once, in full leaf, they would have provided shade and shelter to animals. Now there was little left other than their branches and their trunks—the bark patterned in scales like a crocodile’s back. And so the eunuchs, ladies-in-waiting, and aged
amirs
on horseback who were her companions and her guard were spread out among the trees. As the four bearers of her palanquin jogged in an unsteady rhythm, bending here to duck a low-lying branch, cracking branches like twigs there, the others moved alongside but blessedly away, unable physically to come any closer.

Somewhere up ahead was the imperial elephant that Bapa rode upon, seated in a silver and gold
howdah,
surrounded by the nobles at court, all jostling for a position close to him, hoping for a benevolent glance, a dropped word that would change their fortunes forever. Dara, Shuja, and Murad had decided to ride their horses also; Roshanara was somewhere behind, and the baby, Goharara, had been sent ahead with her wet nurses a few days ago.

Princess Jahanara gazed out into the patchwork of light and shadow cast by the trees, and she heard the soft pants of the palanquin bearers, smelled the metallic odor of the sweat that poured off their bodies. Strewn around her were books from the imperial library, but she did not want to read now, she desired only to exult in this freedom—the ability to put her face through the curtains, to watch the light, feel the heat, and know herself alone and yet protected.

“Jahan,” someone said. She sighed.

“Did Bapa send you with a message?”

“No,” he said, and as he leaned in toward her, his horse stumbled on a stone.

Jahanara screamed, “Dara!” and lunged out to grasp his collar as Dara slid from her view. Just then, another strong hand clasped Prince Dara’s arm and held him upright. Half in and half out of the palanquin, and aware that she was unveiled, Jahanara pulled herself back to the safety of the curtains. Who was that man? Then, when Dara spoke again, she knew.

“Jahan,” Dara said, panting, “Mirza Najabat Khan says that there will be trouble in Bengal. The Portuguese are creating terror among the people; they’ve raided their houses, kidnapped their children and their women for slaves, and captured their lands.”

“How does he know this?” Jahanara asked, clasping her shaking hands tightly in her lap. So Roshan had lied about his having left with Aurangzeb and the
paish-khana.
It didn’t surprise her. Her heart hammering, she peered out carefully and saw a tall, sunburned man who had an easy seat on his horse. He had an angular face, a jutting chin adorned with a short, clipped beard, a beaked nose in profile, a thin neck. His forearms were muscled and scattered with hair, and he wore a red string around his right wrist—for what? Jahanara wondered. The hands that held the reins were large, with a single gold ring on his right index finger. He had fallen back again, and Jahanara had to turn her head and lean forward to see him better. But he kept his head bowed and his gaze stolidly away from her.

“Tell her of your news, Mirza Najabat,” Dara said.

Jahanara heard him say, “I dare not, your Highness. It is better coming from you, in any case. You are too kind in allowing me to speak with her Highness, but it is not my place.”

“News was brought to Bapa, Jahan,” Dara said, “and he has to decide what to do about it. The Portuguese grow too conceited. Bengal does not belong to them; they forget this and assume that they can bully the Empire’s subjects and we will do nothing about it.”

“It is not merely that,” Jahanara said thoughtfully, and she sensed that both the men outside had come closer to listen. “They are being disrespectful to Bapa. Do you remember that they had kidnapped Mama’s slave girls and refused to return them when Bapa asked?”

“During his flight from Emperor Jahangir, your Highness,” Najabat Khan said to Dara.

“Mama was furious; I don’t remember her being as angry before. She did not care very much for the slave girls—it was the insult. Since Bapa was in hiding from his father, they thought they would be safe from retribution. But Bapa,” Jahanara said, “has a long memory.”

“And so do you,” Dara said.

“Some things you must always remember, Dara. What does Bapa say?”

“He waits to talk with you, your Highness,” Najabat Khan said, and she noticed that he did not falter this time. He had the voice of a poet, she thought, with music threaded into it. It was an unreal conversation to Jahanara, for she could now see Mirza Najabat Khan more clearly. His face was open, and when he smiled, his teeth flashed white against his skin. He could not see her, did not know what she looked like or how she carried herself, but he had heard her voice, which was more than most of her father’s courtiers had done until now. She let him see her hand by reaching out to arrange the curtains, unable to resist this small vanity. Then she yanked her hand back inside, flushing, furious with herself. Now that Mama was dead, who would remember that a marriage had been considered between Mirza Najabat Khan and Jahanara? Would Dara know? Would Bapa even allow it? How could she speak of it herself? All of a sudden, Jahanara wanted to marry Najabat Khan. The small conversation they had had was enough. She had looked at him, seen the strength in his face, felt herself glow when he smiled. And this was more than most other women were allowed.